


so you were never a saint

by leonshardt



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-14
Updated: 2016-10-14
Packaged: 2018-08-22 07:40:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,069
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8278048
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/leonshardt/pseuds/leonshardt
Summary: “You know I don’t like sleeping on planes,” McCree mumbles, eyelids already sliding shut. “Always dream of falling, one way or another.”“Yeah,” Reyes says, “I know that.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> past/present/past

After the mission, Reyes wants him to go to sleep.

“I’m not tired,” McCree says, a little delayed, because he’s trying to figure out where to sit on the helicarrier that won’t leave him tossed against the floor when he inevitably passes out mid-flight and they hit turbulence. Reyes just slants him a look that says, _shit, really?_ , and despite everything McCree lets out a worn chuckle, rubbing his eyes roughly.

Carswell and Thorn have already taken up all the available space on the corner seats; the two of them practically passed out on top of each other the second they boarded, and McCree can’t say he blames them. They haven’t slept. _Nobody’s_ slept, aside from the short naps they could steal between receiving new orders and getting deployed on the next mission back to back. Carswell in particular looks precariously close to falling off the cushions and rolling under the coffee table. McCree supposes he’ll avert his eyes when it happens, because he’s a gentleman like that.

“McCree,” Reyes says, “I can tell you’re like ten minutes and a mild breeze away from passing out, and I will _not_ get up to help you when your head hits deck plating.”

Yeah, yeah. McCree kind of wants to quip back at him, but he also wants to sit down and take off his body armor, and maybe, maybe close his eyes a little. He takes a seat opposite from the coffee table, pulls off his chestplate and fastens the seat’s safety harnesses. Leans his head against the seat’s brace, watches Reyes from across the helicarrier with drooping eyelids. The commander gets his hands on the coffee maker, drinking straight out of the pot. The harsh artificial lighting makes the circles under his eyes look like shadows, or bruises. He must be tired too, even if he doesn’t want to show it in front of his agents.

“You know I don’t like sleeping on planes,” McCree mumbles, his eyelids already sliding shut. “Always dream of falling, one way or another.”

“Yeah,” Reyes says, “I know that.”

(It’s not about falling, not really. It’s about wanting someone to be there to catch him, when it all goes to hell. And that’s love, isn’t it? It’s got to be.

McCree wonders then, for a split second, if Reyes has ever been in love.)

 

* * *

 

 

The diner on Route 66 feels, all at once, familiar and completely foreign. Most of the old photographs and portraits are still hanging on the walls, along with a few new ones to keep up with the times. It’s the same place, all right. But being back-- it doesn’t feel the same. Can’t be a changed man showing up in an old haunt and expect to not feel like an outsider.

Coffee still tastes terrible, though, that much hasn’t changed. McCree clutches his second cup until his knuckles turn white, tries not to reveal the shaking of his hands. He only bothers with the whole thing because he promised Angela he would quit smoking, for real this time. Trading one vice for another. He doesn’t even know why he tries. He’d always hated the bitterness, the taste of it in Reyes' mouth in the mornings. Lingers, somehow.

Well, that’s all in the past anyway. Reaper’s sitting across from him now. And Reaper doesn’t drink coffee anymore, or anything else for that matter. Doesn’t need sleep, doesn’t need stims. It’s a little unnerving. McCree doesn’t envy him as he tips the cup to his mouth, grimacing.

Reaper’s watching him.

“We need to talk,” he says. His mask betrays nothing.

McCree opens his mouth. Closes it. Looks away. “Naw, we don’t,” he says.

Reaper just shrugs and walks out the diner door, leaving McCree alone.

McCree sighs. Waits a minute, and then follows him outside. Dumps his coffee cup in the trash on the way out.

Reaper is standing in the parking lot, surveying the few dusty cars lined up in front of the diner, trying to decide which one would be best to hotwire. The sun’s just starting to rise over the canyon, casting an orange glow over the asphalt. Makes Reaper look warmer than he has any right to look. McCree goes to stand by him.

“I like the red one. Always wanted a convertible,” he says.

Reaper says nothing.

“We could try ‘em all, see which one has the best air conditioning.”

Still no response.

“Or,” McCree says, “we could take a plane instead. Back to Gibraltar. See if Angela can’t get you fixed up.”

Reaper tilts his head at the name, and this time McCree holds his gaze-- because hey, it’s worth a shot, isn’t it? He thought Reyes was dead and then he wasn’t, and it’s like everything he knows, everything he thought could be, is unraveling like a spool of thread. He did a lot of things he probably shouldn’t have, back then, but what’s done is done. He can’t take it back, doesn’t know how to even begin to try.

Finally Reaper speaks. “You don’t even like planes,” he says, and McCree smiles, because yeah, that’s Reyes all right.

 

* * *

 

 

They do make it to an actual bed, eventually. Lying back to back on a shitty safehouse cot that’s hardly wide enough for the two of them, and McCree can feel Reyes breathing, the movement just barely brushing against his shirt, but it feels like waves. Like something coiling and steady and warm. McCree wants to lean closer into his heat. He wants to shift away. He wishes, not for the first time, to be given orders on what to do.

“Commander,” he says quietly, “have you ever been in love?”

Reyes doesn’t answer. His breathing is still a little too steady, a little too even. McCree’s thinking that any moment Reyes might sit up and cuff him on the head for breaking the quiet, but the minutes pass, and neither of them are moving. McCree exhales through his teeth, staring at the darkened wall a few feet in front of him. After what seems like a long time, Reyes lets out a barely perceptible sigh.

“If you go the fuck to sleep in the next five minutes I’m going to do you a favor and pretend I didn’t hear you say that,” Reyes says.

 _Okay_ , McCree thinks, and closes his eyes. He’s still thinking he’ll find out anyway, just not now.

But maybe someday.

 


End file.
